


Se Isarn Khuzd

by Freebooter4Ever



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Family, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Romance, The untold half of the hobbit, crazy overgrown squirrel living off of stolen troll food falls in love with a dwarf king, dwarven ladies getting sick of being the ones left behind, movieverse but heavily based off books
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-28 16:19:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freebooter4Ever/pseuds/Freebooter4Ever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frustrated by the One Rule forcing female dwarves inside mountain palaces for their 'safety', Thorin’s sister Dis (unhappy about Kili and Fili secretly sneaking away to go adventuring) and Erna (sick of putting up with Gimli’s teenager stage) form a company of their own, following in Thorin’s footsteps. The women must avoid being seen while still helping the menfolk, who don't even know how to darn a sock let alone survive in the wild on their own (not that they would ever admit it).</p>
<p>Along the way, their path collides with a slightly deranged wild child raised by trolls (if one can ever be 'raised' by trolls), who is infatuated with Dis's brother, much to her frustration. All differences aside, they work together to escape Rivendell, aided by the twin sons of Elrond, who live to exact revenge on orcs, but are feeling constrained by their father’s insistence on ‘peace’.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Many Secret Meetings

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Also, a note on canon: Tolkien claimed Bilbo's account of the journey was entirely from Bilbo's point of view and not entirely historically accurate, which explained his irregularities between The Hobbit and what Tolkien needed to set up LOTR. I'm using that as my headspace canon. Anything that happened in the movie is 'real' and the novels are 'interpretation' by the people in Middle Earth who recorded the events.

 

* * *

_ **Origins of Names Given** _

_ _

Humans believe the name of a dwarf determines the personality. Dwarves know the opposite to be true. Some dwarves wait decades to be given their name, taking on temporary nicknames until then. The person closest to the child gives the name, be it a parent, or a guardian not of the same blood, but of the same mind. Throughout their lives dwarves carry two names. Their one, true name, known only to them and their kin. And the name known to the world which embodies everything they are.

 

* * *

 

__

_**  
Auga** _

_ **Village of Gil at the base of the Blue Mountains** _

  
Sometimes being a close personal friend to the king-in-exile's niece can be frustrating. For example, when she receives an invitation to a secret meeting being held at the end of day and I don't. Fortunately, the king's niece and the king's nephews come as a packaged deal. And the nephews can't tell a lie if their lives depend on it. Something about that entire line, I believe.

Honest to a fault.

Earlier today I cornered Kili in his room. I caught him packing for the secret adventure Fili is whisking him off on. Although not happy to see me, Kili had known he owed me for keeping his secret. Calling in on that favor, I demanded to be told where his sister, Sefi was. He tried to be regal and arrogant about staying silent at first, but that never works on me. He's only two years older, and I've seen him go pale as an elf child when faced with his mother's wrath. And Dis would be very angry to find out the truth about her sons' adventure. Suffice to say, he confessed that tonight Dis and Sefi were staying late in Gil, the human village we trade with. He and Fili intended to use the opportunity to sneak away unnoticed. I helped him pack while he explained everything. Or I would have, if he hadn't continually attempted to forcefully remove me from his room. After I learned everything I needed to know, I finally let him catch me. He picked me up, dumped me outside his room, and slammed the door. Sometimes being short even for a dwarf has it's downsides.

What Kili doesn't know, because I haven't felt the need to tell him, is that Dis suspects something. I have no chance at finagling my way into the boys' adventure. Kili might be persuadable, but Fili is more likely to tie me up and leave me under a rock somewhere. And then feel guilty about it, and leave a note for Bofur to find me by the time it's too late to catch up. However, if Dis decides to chase after her wayward sons, she will need a scout to spy on them, and the entire kin knows I'm the logical choice for that.

Which is why I am currently running down the main street of Gil, dodging humans.

Life in the swamps at the base of the blue mountains is hard, and human feet are delicate, so raised walkways connect the entire village. My metal-toed dwarven boots smack the wooden planks in resounding hollow clomps as I run. I skid around a bend in the road, propelling myself forward off the handrails. I nearly knock over a barrel, hurdling it with a running leap.

"Watch where you're going, lad!" the barrel owner yells after me.

I wave and keep running. In between heavy breaths, I laugh gleefully at the success of my disguise, necessary because of the One Rule. Tradition dictates dwarven women never leave the caves. There are few of us left. Too many inexplicably sickened and died on the retreat from Erabor to the Blue Mountains. The rule is now kept strictly. Since the dragon attack happened over one hundred years ago, and I've never even seen the mountain let alone the palace inside, I find the rule dreadfully limiting. Each year the elders choose a few exceptions to trade with the humans, but given my already nefarious reputation among the kin, I will never be among them. The elders are loath to risk me disgracing the name of the Longbeards in front of humans. They chose Sefi instead, which contented me. My time was better spent outside hunting in secrecy with Kili and Fili. Until tonight. Tonight the select six exceptions to the One Rule prepare to discuss important business privy only to them in a place only they can access. Important business I long to be involved in.

Yet because of the ban, every time I venture into the human world, I must expertly knot my long hair in braids, working strands back and forth across the lower half of my face and hanging the excess down my chin to create an illusory beard. Dwarves recognize the beard as fake, but it fools humans.

When my fellow beardless wonder, Kili first saw my disguise years ago, he nearly passed out from laughing. I was forced to throw a knife between his toes to help him breathe normally again. After confiscating all my knives, for unfortunately my lack of aim is as well known around the kin as is my ability to be in places I shouldn't, Kili begged me to braid his hair too. I did, and showed him the secret, feeling unusually empathetic to the dwarf prince because I've seen the other dwarflings tease him. Never outright thanks to the King's influence, but in cruel, subtle ways, driving him to only associate with his brother and his uncle's friends. Kili and I wore our beards around the mountain with pride, until his Uncle found out and put an end to it. Nowadays, Kili believes himself too old, too important and sporting far too much stubble for childish games, leaving me to escape the confines of the palace alone.

I refocus my mind on the task at hand, my goal in sight. Leaping off a wooden bench, I land briefly on the handrail behind the Boarding House before flinging myself at the hanging sign above the back door. The backdoor leads to the kitchen and connects to the rocky platform where supplies arrive daily on the spoke wheeled carts humans use to navigate the marshes without the help of boardwalks. Swinging on the sign's pole for momentum, I hurl across the gap and land heavily on the stone. I push through the wooden door to the kitchen.

"Kid!" the cook says with surprise, fanning her face and clutching the counter beside her.

"Tell me which table capable of holding six dwarves is the most private" I gasp at her in a rush.

"The corner in the old hall," Jo-Jo says.

I stumble in that direction.

"Between the courtyard and the bathroom!" Jo-Jo calls after me.

"Thanks!" I call back, "And I was never here."

Jo-Jo snorts and returns to her stove.

I emerge from the kitchen, make my way to the hall, and slide underneath the tablecloth in the corner with no time to spare. Before being engulfed in heavy woven fabric, I notice six female dwarves entering through the front door. The human women in the eatery stare suspiciously. I silently huddle beneath the table. Soon six pairs of boots appear below the cloth's hem. I know the owners by the leather and buckles. The king's sister, Dis, wears the regal black. Her daughter and eldest child, Sefi, sits next to her in simple pale suede.

When Sefi sits down she hikes the tablecloth around her legs and uncovers a crude notebook. She expertly arranges the book on her lap, pen poised on the blank page ready to take secret notes. I gaze proudly at the notebook. I half earned the money to buy that bit of writing paper. Kili, Fili, and I snuck out every night for three months to go hunting and sold the spoils to Jo-Jo. Together, the three of us bought paper, cloth, and leather and bound the book ourselves. Sefi intends to be the next great author of history. Except women aren't exactly encouraged to write. The elders dictate only the elite male scribes in the kin be taught dwarven runes to maintain secrecy. Sefi must make do with handcrafted charcoal pencils and hide everything from her mother. If she can't get paper she writes on the walls of her bedroom until Dis discovers the scratchings and yells at her to stop wasting her time. Ever eager to disobey their mother, Kili and Fili try to provide Sefi with a steady supply of paper. Dis still hasn't quite forgiven them or the dwarf who taught Sefi to write in the first place, Pru.

Speaking of, Pru sits next to Sefi. The middle aged dwarf's spiked boots rest firmly on the ground. If any place on her body exhibits a logical excuse for spikes, Pru adds spikes. This includes her hair, which she wears unfashionably short and sculpts around her skull in prickles resembling a porcupine. No word of disrespect or disapproval reachers her ears, however. Rumor says she kills dwarves and men for less.

On the other side of Dis, Erna's ruggedly practical boots ooze half encrusted mud. With four sons, the youngest not even a grown warrior yet, Erna embraces dirt. Her youngest, Gimli, is a particularly curious dwarf with not an ounce of skill at stealth. He insists on dogging Sefi's footsteps every time she sneaks into the human library, excursions that always end with them getting caught. Sefi told me he always reads the books on elves. He says the interest only pertains to research for an eventual revenge, but Sefi suspects the Elven race secretly fascinates him. When he found out his father and the King were taking Kili and Fili on an expedition without him, he threw a fit.

Next boot under the table, is my aunt Alfruna's snow white suede. Her boots daintily cross at the ankle and appear deceptively delicate. In truth, the leather takes a great beating and must be the stiffest, toughest of the lot. Aunt Alfruna is forever tripping over nothing. I suspect her head is only half in reality at any given moment.

Last in the line, my great grandmother's ancient stompers rest heavily on the wood floor, toed with iron identical to mine, and covered in colorful hand-knit warmers. She can crush fingers with those soles.

I wriggle with excitement and drag my knees against my chest to avoid catching a stray boot in the shin during the heated discussion. Dwarves tend to express their feelings physically. I ignore the first half, dealing with the pleasantries and greetings. My mind slips into a favorite daydream; a Balrog, akin to the one deep in Moria, rises from the depths of the Blue Mountains to seek vengeance, the men away on quests and trading expeditions, a lone lass, trained as a warrior, stands between the evil foe and the innocent people of the underground city, the fight is terrible but in the end...

"I sense a pattern," Dis's words interrupt my imaginings, "He calls for warriors, all except my sons."

"My husband mentioned new trade agreements with the hobbits before leaving Gimli and I," Erna adds, "He's taking Bofur and Dori, and all the close relations. Toymakers, all of them."

"His excuse sounds plausible, but still doubtful considering the rumor that Dwalin and Balin have been seen on roads leading back from Gondor," Dis comments, "Those two warriors haven't been home in years. Not since..." She trails off, lost in memory.

"Exactly," Erna interrupts solemnly, "If Thorin is indeed calling a meeting, I don't appreciate your brother stealing my husband away when Gimli is at an age where even the rocks around him can't seem to contain him anymore."

"If I could talk to my brother..." Dis starts.

"You can't talk to Thorin, no one can talk to Thorin once he gets an idea in his head," Erna laughs, "Except that blasted wizard friend of his. There's a meddler if I've ever seen one."

"We can't decide anything until we know their plans," Dis argues.

"Erabor," Pru grunts. Being a poet, Pru never says much, unless she can shock and awe her audience. The brief silence that follows her single word gratifies her need.

"No!" Erna breathes disbelievingly, "Even Thorin wouldn't be that foolish."

"Especially with such a group..." Dis adds.

"He would get lost," Erna throws in.

"My brother," Dis concurs, "Couldn't find his backside with a map and a key."

"Wizard," Pru grunts.

Silence again.

"No!" Erna hoots a little louder this time, slamming her fist one the table, "That meddler! Hasn't the kin born enough strife already? Why bring on more?"

"Taking back our home can hardly be described as 'bringing on' strife," Dis chides.

Pru grunts and waves a fist in agreement.

"There are so few of us left," Erna insists, banging her hand on the table to punctuate each word, "You and I have done our duty, Dis. Married, continued the great lines of our people, raised our children. I will not see them die in war like so many others," she casts a judgmental glance in Pru's direction, "Perhaps some without offspring can't understand."

Pru stands threateningly, shaking the table.

"No one has taken your Gimli away from you," Dis reminds Erna crossly, "Nor any of your other sons."

"Yet!" Erna counters, "Perhaps after your brother, in his blind arrogance, gets every dwarf in his current company killed he'll return for more."

"They will not come to harm," Dis hisses between clenched teeth, "My brother would die first."

"Yeah?" Erna asks with a melancholy laugh, "Then the dragon is going to simply give all that gold over for no reason. No one can ensure the company returns alive."

"I can," Dis insists, stomping her feet as she stands.

"How? With what army?" Erna leaps to her feet, glaring up at the taller dwarf, "Because it would require an army."

An argument breaks out between Dis and Erna, with Sefi chirping in uselessly on occasion. I curl my body in tighter to avoid the stamping feet.

"Follow!" Pru barks.

Immediate silence, heavy and full.

The humans in the other room hastily turn their heads back to their food, embarrassed to be caught eavesdropping on dwarves. A dull murmur of conversation fills the inn.

Erna and Dis sit down, shocked into propriety.

"What about the rule?" Erna asks quietly, solemnly.

More silence. Amma's feet shake under the table. Amma never talks. Instead she signs, leaving me in the dark, unable to see her hands. Murmurs of agreement follow Amma's addition to the conversation. Being the only surviving female elder, everyone obeys Amma's wishes. Everyone.

"It's settled then," Dis confirms, "We have fifteen days. First order of business, find out exactly what happens at the 'trade' meeting in the Shire."

"Auga said that Kili told her..." Sefi mumbles quietly. I kick her in the shin. It must have been a harder kick than I intended because she jumps and gives a squeal. Before I can move, the tablecloth next to Dis jerks upward and the dark haired woman angrily peeks her head below.

"Hi," I say with a smile.

Dis's hand reaches down and yanks me out by my beard. She slams me onto the middle of the table, her hand remaining at my throat.

"I didn't mean to spy, I was simply visiting my good friend Jo-Jo, and..." I rattle off a hastily invented excuse.

Dis shuts me up with a single look, "What did my son tell you?"

"He let it slip that Thorin told them to visit a Mr. Baggins," I answer, relieved to draw the attention away from my discretions and focus on Kili, "A hobbit in Hobbiton."

The dwarves exchange glances.

"Hobbiton? Where Gloin is headed?" Dis laughs, "I guess we better go visit Mister Baggins, then," Dis announces, her eyes glinting with a hint of amusement and excitement.

"We?" I choke.

"We'll leave at dawn," Dis nods, "Pru, our warrior. Erna, our guide. Sefi, our translator. And Amma and Alfruna," she does a head count, "Seven. Khzud. A lucky number among our people. That will bring speed and good fortune to our journey."

"What about me?" I ask, "What is my role?"

Dis smiles knowingly at me, "Considering your gift at sneaking around, I have plans for you."

I smile in return.

* * *

**  
**

**__ **

**_ Marmot _ **

**_ Six hundred miles West, in Rhudaur, at the entrance to the High Pass through the Misty Mountains  _ **

**__ **

I haven't eaten in seven days. I've survived longer periods of starvation, but it still hurts. The ache in my stomach has died down to a dull roar, the pain pushed to the back of my mind for later consideration. I'm not hungry anymore. I chew on leaves to distract myself, or berries, if I can find them. Sometimes Adleitha brings me nuts.

But a person can't survive on nuts and berries for long.

Desperate, I find myself lurking in the trees behind the Lil Inn. The owners of the Lil know me. The woman hates me. The man tolerates me, rather as the trolls tolerate me. He would kill me, if he had the chance. To put me out of my misery.

Fool.

Thankfully when I do steal from them, I'm fast. She never catches me. He never expends the energy chasing me requires. The Lil is the last safe rest house for miles. A welcome spot of civilization in wild country, even if the house's level of civilization is deteriorating and dingy. I suspect this is why they hate me. Food is eternally scarce. Especially with the trolls. Because of the trolls. The three will be down from the mountains again soon. Then I shall feast.

I'm considering stealing from the Lil tonight. Fortunately the house is unusually crowded. There are a few men there. Dangerous men, from the south. And even more interesting, a party of dwarves. With the owner's interest elsewhere, I might have a chance at nicking a pot of meat. Or bread. It would be wiser to take the bread. I wouldn't throw up afterwards. Meat can be too rich after a starving time.

I can see her through the diamond windows, serving the dwarves, smiling at the men. She enjoys company. The man sits in the kitchen by the pot and fire. The light silhouettes the back of his body. He's thinking about her, not me.

I ease my legs off the tree branch I'm perched on, and drop lightly to the ground. Adleitha glides down after me and burrows into my hair. I check the windows one more time. No one watches. Remaining half crouched, I bound across the open grass in two leaps and press myself up against the house's stone wall. The Lil nestles in the crook of a mountain's arm at the edge of a lake whose waters are as clear as the mirrors behind the Lil's bar. Crystal clear. I know because of the time I stood up and was confronted by a strange face framed by a dirty lion's mane during a theft. I didn't know who she was until I realized she was me. That was also the time the woman nearly caught me.

The sound of a heated argument already echoes out the kitchen window, always propped open in the summer because of the heat. The wordy fighting always happens when a company of men take shelter at the Lil. I never bother to listen. But an argument means an unattended bar; means unattended food. The woman leaves a pot of stew on a hot plate for easy serving. Travelers always need seconds.

My hands run along the ridges of the stones, searching for the loose one. Neither the woman nor the man are intelligent enough to figure out how I get inside. One stone block wiggles at my touch. I gently slide the stone inward. My hips fit through the opening with no excess space. Sneaking in would be impossible if I were the proper size. The passageway connects to the floor behind the bar. Squatting low to remain invisible, I creep across the dirty tile towards the pot.

In the reflection of the bar mirrors I can see the dwarves seated at a low table inset into the bay window. The candlelight reflects off the cracked stained glass. Each dwarf seems to be a different color. Perhaps because they wear dyed hoods representing their clans, the hues saturated by the colored light. Loud angry words come from their corner table. One dwarf appears increasingly disappointed. The three men sit across the room, pretending to be uninterested in the dwarves' discussion, yet oddly silent for the Lil's usual clientele.

"This quest is your own, Thorin son of Thrain, heir to the line of Durin, king of the Longbeards!" the dwarf in the grey hood exclaims. His boots pound the floor as he stands up to command attention, "Long have we sought tirelessly for peace, a secure home, where we can practice our craft without interruption. The Ironfists will not risk waking wrath once more."

I pause, staring transfixed at the table. The rest of the dwarves yammer their agreement while the lone dwarf in the blue hood, sitting slightly apart from the rest, silently accepts their judgement. Although he says nothing, underneath his eyes and in the set of his jaw, he seethes in anger.

"Very well," says blue hood, "That is your choice. And I must be on my way."

"On your way?" a dwarf in a yellow hood says, "Stay, rest. You can leave at dawn."

"Night has barely fallen, and I promised my kin a meeting in Hobbiton," blue hood explains, "I am already late."

The dwarves laugh, "What use are hobbits other than to grow the food to fill our bellies?"

"The Gray Wizard tells me there is something more," blue hood continues, "Something to tip the scales of luck in my quest."

The rest of the dwarves only laugh louder. One laughs so loud he spits out his drink.

"I wish you and your quest all the luck in the world, lad," the yellow hood announces with a grin, "Only that it does not darken my doorstep."

The blue hooded dwarf nods gravely and does not join in when the discussion switches over to mundane topics such as the steadily emptying pints of ale around the table.

Recalling my original purpose, I shrug my cache of water skins off my back. The sacks of leather tied to straps stolen from various travelers over the years can hold enough stew to last me a week. Longer if I ration properly, which I never do. I uncap one and begin ladling the warm broth into it. The smell gives me strength, filling my mind and easing the dull pain. I spare a precious second to breathe it in. In that time another figure looms over me. The yellow hooded dwarf. He exclaims in surprise to discover me hiding behind the counter. I tumble backward, my water skins fall to the floor, and the stew slops out bit by bit. The woman hollers and crashes through the kitchen door.

She knows.

Too soon, she appears at the end of the counter, knife in hand. Terrified, I stumble backwards on all fours. By some luck, I failed to push the stone back into place before I stole the stew. Now, my error saves my life. I shoot out the opening and run as hard as I can.

"Stay out you miserable cretin!" the woman screams after me.

Instead of going to the trees, where I know she will search, I dash towards the front of the boarding house. I slide into the one place she would never think to look; underneath the front steps. The steps are old, wooden, and in poor shape. Vines cover the lattice on the right half, hiding a gaping hole. I crouch there for safety and listen to the thrashing sound of her snapping branches in the forest. Only when my head clears do I realize I left my water skins on the floor of the bar. I can't return to The Lil again. She will seal the entrance by tomorrow. I must steal new ones.

By luck or fate, a lone traveler steps out of the inn and onto the front porch. The wooden planks creak under his weight. I remain hidden in the shadows, waiting to take note of his direction and follow him. I intend to waylay him farther down his path and take his water skein. He is traveling, undoubtably he will come to a place where he can buy a new one.

As the traveler walks, I notice a blue hood.

The dwarf, traveling alone, at a time when few travelers would dare the road, on a quest no other dwarf in his circle would join. I have collected books on men, and elves, and dragons, on great wars and small, on forests, and mountains, and seas, but dwarves remain a mystery.

Adleitha notices something else entirely. He jumps from my hair onto my shoulder and makes faces at me, his bushy tail pointing emphatically towards the dwarf.

"Now is not the time for games," I hiss.

Adleitha pays no attention, leaps to the ground, scampers towards the unsuspecting dwarf, and scurries up his leg. The dwarf stops in surprise and dances a strange sort of jig in reaction to the tiny claws climbing on him. Adleitha disappears under the dwarf's cloak and reappears on the fur trim of his vest. Vest and cloak swing outwards as the dwarf spins to face his attacker, his ax at the ready and his right hand poised over his sword.

He confronts an empty yard. His eyes widen and dart around until finally they find mine. I'd forgotten how eyes glow in the dark, even when the rest of the body can't be seen. He lets out a breath and straightens up, leaning on his ax. He briefly looks to the side of the house, sees the stone block sliding back in place, and realizes who must be underneath the steps. Someone harmless, and hungry.

"Come out," he says quietly yet gruffly, "I won't hurt you."

I recognize a sympathy in his eyes. He's seen cold, desperate hunger himself. Hesitant, yet curious, I shift my crouch forward to let the yellow glow from the window illuminate my face. His mouth opens slightly, silently; probably surprised to discover I'm not an animal.

"I'm sorry," I say curtly.

"You talk?" his eyebrows raise.

"Of course, don't you," I reply.

He inclines his head in acknowledgment, assessing me from underneath his eyebrows.

"He thinks your fur is my hair," I explain.

After giving my head a surveying look, the dwarf narrows his eyes in confusion, "he?"

"Adleitha," I say, "The flying squirrel inside your vest."

Upon hearing his name, Adleitha clambers over the dwarf's shoulder to roll between the fur and black curls in the crook of the dwarf's neck. The dwarf watches the squirrel with a stony expression.

"Adleitha," he repeats, pausing to recall something long forgotten. His face remains deadly stoic, his eyes turning to meet mine, "Is Elvish."

"Yes. Means freedom."

"You speak Elvish?"

"Of course, don't you," I repeat my original line with extra sarcasm.

"No," he says, a thinly veiled disgust sneaking into his tone, "Take your pet and go."

"I can't."

"Why not?" his voice rumbles.

"If I move any father, I can be seen through the window."

He studies me silently.

"I must wait until the light is gone," I continue.

As if on cue, someone snuffs out the candle in the window. The dwarf tilts his head higher to stare down his nose and raises a brow, inviting me to collect the flying squirrel nestled in his collar bone. I carefully stand halfway up and take a few steps closer. When I reach him, I straighten, and discover I'm looking directly into his eyes. He is tall, for a dwarf. Almost exactly my height. I stretch my hands out, lift his hair gently off his cloak with one and scoop Adleitha carefully into the other. I take a step back, and our eyes meet again. Neither of us quite understands what the other is. And it bothers us; being uncertain of something.

"Cretin!" the screech from the front door of The Lil shakes us back to reality.

She's found me despite the darkness. I stood too long in one place. Before I can react a strong arm shoves my body to the side and the dwarf steps in front of me.

"That creature has stolen more food from me than is possible to repay," she cries, marching down on the dwarf. He keeps his body between me and the woman, glaring into her face, yet somehow maintaining his superior look down his nose.

"How much?" he asks.

His question replaces the anger on her face with shock.

"What?" she barks.

"How much is owed?" he repeats calmly, taking another step forward.

She names an impossibly high number. He pulls a small bag from his tunic, releases the drawstring, shakes out a few gold coins for proof, tips them back in, wraps the bag closed, and tosses it at the front porch. It lands with a chink on the wooden steps. The woman dives after it. Without sparing a second glance at me, the dwarf thrusts a larger bundle in my arms and walks off, pulling his blue hood up as he leaves. The woman tromps inside, muttering about crazy dwarves and slamming the door. I'm left standing alone.

I run up a tree and settle myself comfortably on one of the larger branches. Eagerly unwrapping the rags, my mouth waters with anticipation. I caught a whiff of the freshly baked travel biscuits when he handed them to me. The first one disappears in seconds. I eat the next slowly, carefully. My stomach probably can't handle more than three.

I'm licking the crumbs from my fingers after finishing the third biscuit when the first man tumbles out the door of the Lil. He laughs cruelly, dragging his dirty hair from his eyes to see better. The second man strides out onto the porch and, adding his voice to the laughter, kicks the first man down the rest of the stairs. The first man trips, pitching forward towards the dirt. Not a moment to spare, the second man catches the first by the seat of his pants and roughly stands him upright.

"Idiots!" a loud, arrogant voice yells over the other two's voices, "Stop fooling around. Pull yourselves together."

"But did you see the gold that old witch was counting in her palm?" the first man asks, slapping the second on the back. The two men are almost identical, both tall, lanky, and muscular with bodies hardened by labor.

"The dwarf must have bags of stolen gold to be throwing it away like that," the second man, or more accurately, woman says.

"Gold we haven't gotten yet," Another man exits the Lil, slamming the door behind him. He adjusts his frayed collar and pulls the tattered sleeves down on his frayed jacket. The cane in his left hand clunks slowly down the wooden steps as he takes them one at a time.

"Ah, but it will be!" the young man says.

"Which way did he go?" the woman asks, searching the ground around her and completely missing the dark footprints already filling with new mud.

The old man shakes his head back to express his irritation and remove his fluffy white hair from his eyes. He strolls in the correct direction, subtly noticing the footprints and saying nothing. His walk is casual, but hides a limp.

"The gold might pay for a new leg," the young man says, "One the right height. To replace the one the dwarves took."

"Hrmph," the old man gruffly puffs his chest out and continues to walk. The twins fall in behind him, still poking and pushing at each other.

I nearly drop my bundle of biscuits. I deftly gather the cloth around the leftovers, twist it tight, and tie it to one of the many leather belts wrapped around my waist. I slide along the tree branch and leap to the next one. Crawling from branch to branch, tree to tree, I follow the humans. I know they plan on ambushing the dwarf. The old man seems harmless. The twins, however, appear strong.

I try to convince myself the armed and undoubtably experienced dwarf can take care of himself. But the fight will be two against one and they might catch him unaware. The twins start to sing a song in the olden tongue of man. I can barely understand the nonsense words, but I hear enough; "death", "revenge", "axe", "sword", "glory".

I owe the dwarf. I must warn him.

Breaking into a run, I keep my balance by briefly touching branch after branch as I leap through the trees. The thick leather padding on my gloves stops my skin from being worn away by the bark. The cracked soles of my boots help my feet grip the uneven surfaces. I navigate the forest as swift and silent as a bird flying through the leaves.

Within minutes I find him. He walks tirelessly, though he hasn't gotten very far; a mile, maybe two. I follow in secret, high above him in the foliage. Despite my attempts to remain hidden, he senses a presence, whether by the slight noise or the movement in his peripheral vision. His stride becomes more alert, his head held high, turning to scan the forest on both sides. The fog at the end of the road fades to reveal the the three men trailing the dwarf's footsteps. A twig snaps. The men aren't bothering to walk quietly.

The dwarf slowly turns halfway around, steps to the side of the path, and rests his hands on the crest of his axe. A weary, annoyed expression settles on his face, though his stance is strong. His mouth forms a grim line and he watches the humans approach.

"Greetings master dwarf," the young man mocks, "Why do you stop?"

The young woman laughs jeeringly.

"You would be wise to continue down your path," the dwarf tells the man, bowing his head without taking his eyes off the humans. The stiffness in the dwarf's neck, and furrowed brows belie the apparent servility of the gesture. A carefully controlled anger lurks underneath the calm.

The humans, however, fail to pick up on the subtleties. The young twins stop a few paces away from the dwarf, putting their hands on their hips and fidgeting in a boisterous manner. The old man staggers over to the tree I'm hiding in, and lowers himself onto a root. He surveys the three standing in front of him with a bored expression.

"Have fun," he instructs his young companions with a flick of his hand, "But don't kill him. We don't need another mess to clean up."

The dwarf's brow rises in disdain. He rolls his eyes and sighs. The young man attacks first, eagerly swinging his sword at the dwarf's head, forcing the dwarf to step back and catch the sharp steel with the heavy wood of his axe. In a few strokes of his axe, the dwarf overpowers the man and sends him flailing backward. Before the dwarf can take advantage of the man's vulnerability, the woman lunges in an attack. She carries two smaller swords. Although faster, her technique is wild and imprecise. Regaining his feet, the man joins the fray. The fight grows in intensity. The dwarf's superior skill and strength outweigh the humans' longer reach. Watching from above, I'm mesmerized by the dwarf's fur trimmed coat swirling with each blow. In action he grows twice in size. Yet one cannot match two. The man creates a distraction, allowing the woman to discard her swords and lock her arms around the dwarf's shoulders from behind. The dwarf roars, tries to twist away, but the man kicks the dwarf's axe out of his hand. The loud crack catches my breath in my throat. I fear for the bones in his fingers. The dwarf stays eerily silent even as he slumps forward. Grimacing, and clearly working through pain, the dwarf staggers to his feet again, straining against the woman's hold.

With heavy breaths, the man raises his own sword and points it at the dwarf's chest, "You fight good, for a dwarf," he sheathes his sword, "But we have plenty of experience beating dwarves."

Another laugh from the woman.

"We killed the dwarves who forced our people out of the hills," he says and strikes the dwarf across the face with the back of his hand, "Every one. As reparations for the women and children cut down by Rohan warriors. Warriors who took our lands. Us left defenseless with no caves to escape to."

His speech sounds rehearsed. A well nurtured grudge, a story oft repeated to captive audiences. The dwarf offers no response except his unwavering angry glare.

Sensing the dwarf's pain, Adleitha scampers down my shoulder, across the clearing, and onto the dwarf's back. His movement goes unnoticed. A larger distraction might steal the human's attention away long enough for the dwarf to escape. I desperately hunt around the tree for an object to throw. Nothing. But below me sits the old man, calmly observing. I swing my legs to one side of the tree branch and yank my notched, dull food knife from my boot. Harmless, but possibly threatening enough or a brief moment.

"We want your gold, dwarf," the man spits, "Undoubtably stolen from an honest man."

The man punches the dwarf in the stomach. The dwarf doubles over, yet stubbornly raises his head with pride. Suddenly Adleitha pops out of the newly formed gap between the dwarf's tunic and flapping coat. The dwarf sense the movement and watches the squirrel out of the corner of his eye, a calculating expression on his face.

"What is that?" the man asks hesitantly, bewildered.

"A flying squirrel," the dwarf growls, slight amusement in his voice.

He knows.

I drop from the tree and land hard on the old man's shoulders. I wrap my legs around his body, dig my fingers into his hair, and press my knife to his exposed neck.

"Don't move," I whisper to him. The old man becomes still as stone.

"Release him," I yell to the others. The man and woman freeze, looking to my captive for direction. Silence falls, except for the twittering of birds and rustling of branches in the wind. No one realizes my knife can't cut more than cheese. The humans hesitate, unsure of their next move, possibly testing how necessary the old man is to their survival. I'm relying on the dwarf's superior strength to tip the balance.

The dwarf proves my assumptions correct. He breaks free of the woman's loosened grasp, kicks the man face-first into the dirt and simultaneously draws the man's sword from his belt. Swinging the sword expertly around his wrist, he knocks the man on the back of the head with the hilt. With a holler, the woman swings her swords wildly in the dwarf's direction. He ducks, slices open the woman's thigh, and dives into a roll to reclaim his axe. He charges at the woman's back, jumps, and aims the wooden heel of the axe at the back of her head. She collapses to the ground, unconscious.

Finished, he throws the man's sword to the ground and looks up at me. He gives a nod, eyes staring pointedly at my knife. An expert metalsmith, he can recognize a dull blade. He wants me out of the way.

"No!" the old man cries, misinterpreting the nod to mean I should cut his throat. He struggles in my grasp, "Unhand me, wretched animal!"

I whip the knife away from his throat, slide it into my boot, grasp the branch over my head, and kick my legs up into the tree. I spin backwards about the branch and climb safely through the foliage. Below, the dwarf advances on the pleading old man, knocks him out, and leaves him to lie at the base of the tree.

"You are safe now," he calls gruffly without sparing a glance at me.

I drop to the ground again and crouch near the old man. The dwarf searches the young man's pockets. Adleitha lies across the dwarf's head, half entangled in his hair, but the dwarf takes no notice. He lifts a coin bag and drops a number of pieces into his palm. Finished, he slips the purse into the man's coat and straightens. He picks up his axe, brushes dirt off the handle, and finally raises his eyes to meet mine. His expression hardens softly, a defiant glint in his eyes.

"Half of an hour's worth of work, they stole from me," he defends his actions, "I'm taking fair payment." He reaches down to unlatch something from the woman's clothes. The water skin he lifts is twice as large as any of my old ones. Water sloshes inside. The dwarf tosses it at me.

I catch the skin and cling to it tightly, still staring at him.

"You left yours behind in the Inn," he informs me.

I nod.

He nods in return.

I sling the water skin onto my back, attaching the straps to my own.

He watches me, "I suspect, had I not rescued you from the innkeeper, it would be my water skin on your back right now."

I stay silent. Verbal confirmation is unnecessary. He knows the truth. I saw it in his eyes back at the Inn.

"Thank you for giving your gold so freely," I answer instead.

"Think nothing of it," he casts his eyes towards the road behind him and sighs, "The gold was a bribe. Intended to persuade my kin..." he trails off, blinking in resignation, "It proved useless."

"Not completely useless," I add.

His eyes flick over to me. In two strides he closes the distance between us, stepping heavily around the fallen bodies. He stares down his nose at me and lifts an arm level with his shoulder.

"Your pet," he says. I detect the barest hint of a smile on his mouth but stubborn distrust in his eyes. Ever obedient to everyone except me, Adleitha scurries down the dwarf's hair, across his broad shoulder, and along his arm. I slowly straighten out of my crouch, maintaining eye contact. I leave one foot pointed towards the tree, half turned away from him, ready to sprint to safety at the slightest sign. He extends his hand and the flying squirrel jumps lightly into my own.

"Adleitha," I remind him.

The corner of his lip twitches, "And what are you called?"

"Depends on who you ask," I say defiantly.

He raises his brow, mild amusement in his eyes.

"Overgrown squirrel," I confess, "by the unobservant travelers on the road."

He gives me a brief, tight lipped smile before turning his face towards the ground and nodding.

"Cretin," I add, "by those who run the Lil."

A slight ripple of angry tension runs across his shoulders.

"Marmot, by the trolls."

He looks up in interest, surprised by my mention of the giants from the mountains.

"And Mot, by my friends," I conclude before he asks prying questions.

"Friends such as your pet," he comments.

"And others," I bristle, "I'm not entirely alone. Nor is this squirrel a pet. And his name is Adleitha, as I've told you before."

"I don't speak Elvish," the dwarf replies.

"Surely you can pronounce a name you've heard twice already."

"You misunderstand me," he explains, "I can speak Elvish fluently. I choose not to."

He watches me silently, a small smile on his lips.

I choose to ignore the insult to my second language.

"And you?" I ask, "What do they call you other than Master Dwarf?"

His eyes go cold. He turns to stare in disgust at the humans collapsed on the ground, "Do not remind me of their mockery," he warns.

I freeze, every muscle alert, the instinct of a squirrel who senses a disturbance in the air.

He notices my discomfort and sighs, "Thorin Oakenshield," he watches me out of the corner of his eye, "At your service." He inclines his head half an inch. He thumps his axe on the ground and strides off in his original direction as if he hadn't been nearly beaten and robbed.

"And what place calls so urgently you refuse a safe night's stay at the Inn?" I call after him.

He stops, hangs his head, examining his hand curled around the wood of his axe, lost in thought, and then turns to face me. The sadness in his blue eyes fills my entire body. I almost regret asking the question.

"Home," he says.

We stand in silence, neither trusting the other enough to voice our thoughts.

He opens his mouth to say something, closes it and reconsiders, and then says, "Pay no attention to the woman at the Lil. Dwarves are a race of our own, not deformed humans. You are no cretin."

I stare blankly.

He breaks eye contact and glares once more at the unconscious humans.

I run. In one swift movement, I'm swinging farther and farther up the nearest tree.

When he raises his head to say something more, he finds himself alone.

Without a second hesitation, he continues on his path. I follow. Invisible, high above in the trees; watching over him, to ensure he does not encounter anymore trouble on the dangerous forest path. I wish to see him safely home. But I stop at the border of the woods. I wait until he passes out of the early morning shadow cast by the trees on the grassy field, and into the sun. I watch him leave, sitting silently among my branches. I'm unwilling to simply let him go. He is not a merchant, nor a wandering bard, nor a ruffian, nor any other type of frequent traveler. He is heading home. He will not pass this way again.


	2. Clueless Concussed Duck

**Chapter One: Clueless Concussed Duck**

Disclaimer: Own nothing. Also, in case my formatting doesn't make sense, the bolded name at the top of the text is the character who is narrating. And thank you for all the lovely reviews!

* * *

**Auga**

**Hobbiton**

"Stop standing on my heels!" Sefi whines. Long, delicate fingers wrap around my wrist and yank me off my feet.

"I wasn't standing on your heels, I was climbing on your back," I protest. I wiggle out of Sefi's strong grasp and drop to the ground, landing lightly. Or at least, I would have, if it weren't for the prickle bush we were hiding behind.

"You should not be standing on my back," Sefi lectures, letting her spectacles slide down her long nose far enough to fix me with a glare.

I fight my way out of the prickle bush, rubbing my backside and plucking thorns from my heavy knitted tunic. Thank Durin's beard for Amma constantly expressing her love in wooly gifts.

"How else am I supposed to see?" I implore Sefi, "Not all of us are blessed with your freakish height."

"You don't need to see inside," Sefi hisses, "You need to keep an eye on the road." Exasperated, she fits her hand like a claw on top of my head and spins me around to face the opposite direction.

"No one is coming," I complain sourly, folding my arms and settling more comfortably into the dirt, "And no one will come. Until suppertime."

"And so we wait," Sefi says calmly, resting her chin on the windowsill and pressing her nose to the glass pane.

I growl a low 'hrmph' and cross my arms tighter into my body. Never have I ever seen a duller place than this hobbit village. The cluster of hovels can hardly be called a village. The individual homes are all underground, with only the silly wooden doors visible, which I suppose is quite sensible, and possibly quite comfortable. However I snuck a short glance inside the home through one of the windows built into the hill...and well...the hobbits ruined whatever comfort being underground might have offered by paneling everything in wood! Not that the dirt of these handmade caves would even begin to compare to the soaring rock faces of our mountains.

After only a few days of travel, I'm already missing the cool stone beneath my feet and caverns above my head. Staring down the hill into the valley below me only reminds me of my present insecurity. The sky stretches out too far for too long. A novelty for the first few days, to be sure, but one that wears off pretty quickly. And despite her airs, I can tell the open spaces bother Sefi. She gazes so longingly into that window.

"Can you see him?" I ask her, casting a sidelong glance at her profile.

"Who?" she asks vaguely, distracted.

"The beardless fluffy one!"

"Oh," she comes to her senses, "Yes. He's making dinner."

"Durin's beard, I'm hungry."

"Hmmm," she hums absently.

"What's he cooking?" I ask, swiveling around and attempting to run up the wall underneath the window with my boots. I nearly manage it, too, but Sefi shoves me down by my shoulder and roughly pushes me to face the proper direction.

"It hardly matters," she says, disdainful of my concern.

If I listen hard enough I can imagine the sizzle of good meat roasting over a fire. My mouth waters at the thought. Another part of journeying I didn't expect, the scarcity of cooked food.

"I wish we could join in," I comment.

Sefi stays silent. She considers food beneath her interest, to be utilized purely for fuel. She'd eat nothing but that disgusting elf-dung travel bread during our entire adventure if she had her druthers.

"I mean to say, I like this fellow," I continue, to fill the space, "He's just my height. We'd probably get on splendidly. I could teach him to fight and we could spar as a team like Fili and Kili do to show off all the time."

"I don't think this fellow is the fighting type," Sefi replies sardonically.

"Hence why I must teach him," I insist, "I can't stand those two nearly beardless princelings always besting me. How am I supposed to compete when they have practically one mind between them, and fight like it too."

"You don't have a beard either," Sefi reminds me, sounding bored.

"Yes I do!" I say sharply, tugging at the golden locks braided underneath my chin.

I can feel Sefi rolling her eyes behind me.

I nearly turn around to give her a piece of my mind but in the distance I spot a swinging lantern about the height of a dwarf.

"Shht!" I hiss to Sefi under my breath, "Someone's coming up from the bottom of the hill." I silently slide through the prickle bush, maneuvering towards the front to get a better view. The leaves rustle as Sefi ducks underneath the bush with me and I cringe in frustration. Dis should permit me to scout alone. I never rustle leaves.

The lantern light belongs to a rotund, drunk lad wandering back to his hole after a night at the tavern, making him the second Hobbit I have seen in my entire life. The creatures don't seem to come out at night very often.

"Another false alarm," I sigh, "And I wish we could have been put on watch during the day instead. There would be more to observe."

"And more to see us," Sefi points out, returning to her post at the window, "Also, good eye," she adds as an afterthought, patting me on the head.

I mimic her stoic manner of speaking and slide to the side so she ends up patting air. In return I get a light smack on the back of my neck. I pluck a needle from the bush and prick her in the butt with it. She nearly yelps, swallowing the cry and glaring viciously down at me instead. She opens her mouth to launch into one of her great tirades.

Before Sefi gets a word out, I catch sight of a bulky form lumbering up the hill. I yank Sefi down and cover her mouth with my hand. The bulky, bald person moves heavier and faster than the drunk hobbit. As he approaches his dwarven ancestry becomes increasingly obvious. Sefi's eyes widen with recognition. I give her a shake to keep her quiet and we sit in silence as the dwarf rings the doorbell of the home we were tasked to observe. The hobbit, appearing strangely more confused than he aught to be, answers the door and lets the dwarf in. I release my hold on Sefi with a sigh.

"That was Dwalin!" she breathes as soon as my hand leaves her lips. She spins towards the window and presses her nose to the glass once more. I clamber onto her back and, lean my head over her shoulder to see. My feet nearly slide down but she curls her arms around my ankles and hoists me up.

"Dis spoke true. The old warriors answer the call," Sefi says faintly, "I don't believe it."

"So much for the fishing expedition ruse," I whisper sardonically.

"Poor hobbit," Sefi comments.

Poor hobbit indeed. Inside the kitchen, Dwalin sits down without a thought and busies himself with eating the fluffy-footed creature's dinner.

"He reminds me of my father," Sefi continues. I tear my eyes from the scene in the window to watch her face carefully.

"The hobbit, I mean," Sefi adds as if it needed clarification. I squeeze her tightly in an awkward embrace and kiss the side of her head, still clinging to her back.

I'm never very good at offering comfort.

In the silence that follows, I hear the faint rumble of a dwarf whistling. I slide off Sefi's back and pull her down with me. We watch, wide-eyed, as another familiar dwarf strolls up to the front door. He likewise disappears into the hobbit hole. Sefi and I turn to each other, "Balin!" we say simultaneously.

Now the company begins to arrive. Even Sefi turns her gaze to the bottom of the hill rather than the window. Two dark figures in the distance slowly make their way along the road.

"Two guesses who," I mutter darkly.

"Drop it," Sefi scolds, "We aren't to be seen, remember?"

"Hrmph," I repeat, "Were I but born male..."

"You still wouldn't have been allowed on the journey," she reminds me, "Gimli is only ten years younger than you, and Gloin refused him."

"Yes, but Gimli is a soft, huffy, homebody with delusions of grandeur," I complain, "Let me get either of those two ax-biters down there alone, and I'll best them in a challenge easily."

Out of the corner of my eyes I catch Sefi rolling hers.

Frustrated, and feeling more than a little cheated, I quietly pop out from behind the bush and rush to the front gate of the hobbit hole. A muffled cry comes from the bush, but Sefi remains in place, knowing perfectly well that of the two of us, I'm the one most capable of moving unseen. I pick a spot on the mailbox by the gate at random and desperately try to rub out the name "Baggins". Unfortunately, in the span of time that it takes the two shadows to near the top of the hill, all I can do is change the sign to 'Boggins' by scraping off the end of the 'a'. Apparently hobbits are skilled crafts people with hardy wood carvings. I duck into the nearest bush and growl.

Unwittingly the two dwarves, whose existence I'm most opposed to, stop at the sign.

"Boggins," the youngest one reads in confusion.

The two exchange a weighted glance.

"Do you think we got the name wrong, Kili?" the older dwarf asks with a vague, unworried expression, "It must be the right place. There's the rune on the door."

Curse the rune. It had completely slipped my mind.

"Must be," Kili agrees with the flash of a grin, "Foreign names can be difficult to pronounce. Gandalf might have misspoke."

"I've never heard of wizards misspeaking," Fili counters.

"Hobbits are a relatively insignificant, lesser known race," Kili points out, "Perhaps the wizard was too focused on getting his spells right to bother with the names."

"Seems logical enough," Fili shrugs and lets his brother lead on. The doorbell rings and the hobbit answers.

"Fili."

"And Kili."

"At your service," the dwarves say in unison.

I put a fist in my mouth to muffle my groan and roll my eyes. Knowing them, they're probably bowing.

"You must be Mr. Boggins!" Kili adds with glee.

The hobbit's miffed expression deepens, but he lets them in. I slink back to Sefi, smirking.

"Congratulations," she drawls, obviously unimpressed, "You lowered the youngest heir of Durin's reputation one notch stupider."

"I thought it was funny," I stick my tongue out at her.

She elbows me in the side and gestures silently to the road. An entire troop of dwarves makes their way closer.

"Bombur. Bifur. Bofur!...," I whisper their names as they pass by. The clomping of dwarf feet on cobblestone could drown out a mumak herd. A tall man with a grey hat shepherds them along, and gives off the impression of sorely needing a strong drink.

"That accounts for everyone," I say.

"All except one," Sefi says hesitantly.

"Who?" I ask, hastily counting on my fingers to figure out which dwarf I'm missing.

"King Thorin."

"Oh," I say, "Of course."

Dis did warn me.

The sheer number of dwarves packed into the hobbit's kitchen renders watching at the window impossible without the worry of being seen, forcing Sefi and I to sit quietly, anticipating our King's arrival. Eventually Sefi nods off on my shoulder, snoring lightly. A typical dwarf problem. Snoring sets my nerves on end. I stick my fingers in her nostrils to stop the noise and she coughs before continuing to breathe normally. I wonder how much time has passed. I longingly listen to the wild ruckus occurring inside the warm hobbit hole. By the Balrog, I'm better at singing than all of them, if only I could join in.

After tracking the moon's climb into the sky for another eon, I shake Sefi awake.

"Urm?" she rubs sleep from her eyes.

"Thorin still hasn't shown," I explain, "Stay here, keep watch, and don't sleep," I order her.

"Where are you going?" she demands.

"Dis said, if her brother's late, make signs!" I whisper behind me before disappearing into the brush. I dash up the hill, grabbing fistfuls of grass to prevent myself from sliding in the slick mud. From my vantage above the Shire, I spot a cloaked figure walking swiftly in the opposite direction. I curse under my breath. Thorin; lost, as Dis predicted. I survey the roads surrounding the hill. A half full wooden cart of vegetables rests next to me, the back wheel wedged with a rock to keep it still. I kick at the rock until it dislodges. The wheels start to creak and turn. I press the flat of my boot to the end of the cart, wiggle the iron into the groove of the wood, and shove. The cart hitches forward, the front wheels spinning in air for a second before thumping onto the ground and jiggling down the hill. I dive under a bush. The crash, and equally loud dwarven curse echoes back to me. I peek out from behind a leaf. Thorin stands in the grass, slightly disheveled after jumping clear of a careening vegetable cart, and glances around in surprise.

"Please turn around," I implore him quietly, "Please, please, please turn around."

He does. His face is suspicious and scowling, but that's not exactly a new expression for Thorin Oakenshield. He starts to walk in the right direction, casting accusatory looks back at the cart and up the hill, eyes searching for the culprit.

His current path should take him around the hill to the proper side, but there are still three forks in the road on the hill itself. Any directional signs I create must be subtle enough to be an accident of fate, and obvious enough that even our unobservant king takes notice. I creep away from my bush and shuffle down the slick grass to the first fork. A few feet away from the bottom of the hill, I hit a particularly muddy patch and my boots fly out from underneath me. I land hard on my hip, sliding the rest of the way down.

My slide ends abruptly when I slam into a wooden pole. I groan, hobbling to my feet. At least now there will be no footprints to give me away. I lean against the pole to regain my balance. My hands trail brown muck across everything I touch, including the clothes line attached to the pole.

A clothes line hanging three crisp white, starchy shirts, the sleeves and collars held up by pins. The blouses float in the breeze eerily, like scarecrows bereft of their stuffing. I hastily unpin one right sleeve each. Brown lumps from my hands drip down the stiff shirt fronts. I've destroyed an entire day's washing. But one angry hobbit is worth the trouble. The ghostly scarecrows now point up the hill towards the hobbit hole.

I crouch close to the ground again and search for the next fork in the road.

Dashing between bushes, I eye the distant black shape of Thorin coming round the bend. I reach the fork with no time to spare. Surveying my supplies at hand, I delicately take the ends of grass reeds at the edge of the road and weave them into the nearest fence. The matted long grass forms a crude arrow pointing in the proper direction. I dive back into the bush to wait.

After a minute or two, Thorin arrives and stands in front of the arrow.

He snorts, half in disgust, half in amusement, and casts his eyes to the sky. "Wizards," he mutters. He turns to walk up the hill, thankfully in the proper direction.

I sigh in relief. He blames Gandalf for the signs, not an unseen dwarf child illicitly running around outside. I relax against a tree trunk. Unfortunately, my thoughtless slight movement disturbs a hidden squirrel. The creature scampers across Thorin's path. I freeze.

Thorin stops as well, appearing unusually interested in such a small creature. He glances back at the grass arrow, and then at the bush I'm hiding in. He steps closer, peering into the thick foliage.

I daren't move. Even if I wanted to run, a single twitch and I'd jostle enough branches to give me away. Curse squirrels!

His hand reaches towards the bush, then stops, hesitates. He squats closer to the ground, eyes level with mine although he can't see me. His eyes are curious, and surprised, and something else I don't recognize. I squeeze my eyes shut, begging him silently to go away. If he finds me, the game is up. I'll be sent home for sure.

"Marmot?" he asks gently.

My eyes snap open. If I didn't know any better, I might mistake that muscle spasm in Thorin's face for a smile.

When he receives no answer, he leans in closer to brush a few leaves out of the way. I bite my lip in desperation.

"Harrrumph," a gruff voice coughs.

Thorin stops moving. I slide my gaze slightly to the right and discover a middle aged hobbit standing on the left side of the path. The hobbit scowls down at the dwarf in disapproval. I suppose conversing with plants isn't considered proper in Hobbiton.

"Humph," the hobbit repeats.

Thorin straightens, adjusts his cloak, and returns the Hobbit's scowl.

"Good evening," Thorin says, though his tone suggests otherwise.

"Hum, humm, Harrum," the hobbit croaks in between a few puffs of his pipe.

Thorin blinks at the halfling.

The hobbit nods at the path in front of him, and jerks his head to the side while staring at Thorin pointedly.

Thorin lifts his head in indignation.

Neither dwarf nor hobbit moves.

"I'm..." Thorin takes a long breath, "lost." The word pains him.

"Bush," the hobbit says gruffly, gesturing to my hiding spot, "Not map."

Thorin glowers silently at the halfling. The hobbit shifts his weight onto his back foot and inhales his pipe-weed casually. The wind blows the smoke in the dwarf's face.

Thorin coughs, sighs in annoyance, and steps to the side.

The hobbit strolls past, keeping one suspicious eye on Thorin.

"Hobbits," Thorin growls under his breath once the halfling disappears from sight. He glances back at my bush, shakes his head in disappointment, and turns away. His cloak swings outward elegantly as he storms off.

I sigh and slump into the tree roots. I'm safe. Thorin will arrive at the hobbit's home, albeit a little late, but none the wiser about Dis's plan. I intend to wait under my tree until Thorin is inside, but a shrill voice disturbs my peace.

"Excuse you," the voice calls out.

I pop my head out of the bush enough to see the road on the hill. A green satin blob topped with bouncing brown ringlets stands indignantly a few paces away from the dwarf king, who is so close to reaching the hobbit's home he could touch the gate. I creep closer, dashing from bush to bush to gain a better vantage point. Loud music emanates from the hobbit hole and nearly drowns out the lady hobbit's shout. Thorin and I are the only ones who hear.

Well, us and Sefi still hidden under the window, probably.

"Pardon?" Thorin half turns around, fixing the demanding hobbit woman with a weary stare over his fur covered shoulder.

"That is no way to greet a woman!" the hobbit states haughtily.

"I said nothing," Thorin rumbles, irritated at being treated with such derision. He takes a few steps towards the woman, towering over her by at least a foot.

"Exactly," the hobbit insists, continuing to look down her nose at the dwarf despite having to raise her head quite high to do so.

Thorin takes a deep breath, judges the woman as not worth his time, and turns away.

"In Hobbiton," the woman continues, her tone of voice making it clear she considers him an unwelcome outsider, "It is customary to at least wish a good evening or comment on the pleasant weather in passing."

"If I were to do so," Thorin says, his cloak swirling as he confronts her once more, "I might also ask what a lady such as yourself is doing outside so late in the evening..."

"That..." she bristles, "Is none of your business."

"Then my business is likewise my own," Thorin concludes, "And I am late. Good evening."

"Well, I never!" the hobbit exclaims, "To think a Baggins could be treated such. By a stranger in our Shire, no less!"

"Baggins?" Thorin's eyebrows raise dangerously.

"Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins!" says Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins proudly, "A name that in normal circumstances would command respect on this hill." The feather in her hat quivers.

Thorin, looking confused, inclines his head ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

I begin to panic, frustrated at needing to hide when I want to yell that this uppity lady is the wrong Baggins. In desperation I grab the nearest projectile - a gnome, one of those nasty insulting lawn decorations - and chuck it towards the front gate of the hobbit hole. Finally my spear training exercises back home pay off.

My strength is good, but my aim is as horrible as expected.

The lawn gnome bangs against a fence post, drops to the ground, and splits in two like an egg. Thorin spins around, hitching his ax into his hands and taking a defensive stance in front of Lobelia, who, in the manner of delicate folk unused to sudden noises, clutches her chest and gives a great 'Oh!' of surprise. All trepidations over the mysterious dwarf forgotten, the lady hobbit jumps forward to cling to the back of Thorin's cloak.

"What is it," she squeaks, "What horrors have you brought into the Shire with you."

Thankfully, Thorin sees the broken lawn gnome and puts the pieces of the puzzle together with ease, "It's nothing," he says, shrugging off Lobelia's grabby hands. His eyes travel from the front gate, to the round door, and rest on the glowing blue rune carved in the green paint, visible only to those who know what they are looking for. "Do not concern yourself. Good evening," he grumbles curtly to Lobelia, and strides through the hobbit's gate.

"Yes, you said that..." Lobelia trails off faintly.

Lobelia remains in the center of the road looking unnerved, disheveled, and more than a little guilty. Whatever her business was at this time of night, I imagine it was not altogether ladylike. She turns on her satin high heel and marches off.

I heave a sigh of relief.

Thorin turns his head and watches her go, probably not trusting her to actually leave. He raises his hand to the hobbit's door, but pauses. The music inside rises to a crescendo. Thorin listens silently, eyes still following Lobelia's trek down the hill. The music behind the door explodes into laughter. Thorin raps on the wood three times. The house goes silent. He winces and closes his eyes, well aware the dwarves' merriment died because of his knock.

The bushes to the left of him rustle.

I curse myself for leaving Sefi alone.

Thorin's eyes snap open, and he nearly leaves the doorstep to investigate, but at that moment the door opens and the hobbit welcomes the dwarf King into his home.

I wait in the bush until Thorin is safely inside, just to be sure, and then follow his footsteps in a rush, sliding deftly into the prickles beside Sefi.

"Can you be more obvious?" I hiss at her.

"Where were you?" Sefi snaps at me, grabbing my arm and pulling me in the rest of the way.

"Aiding our directionally challenged King," I reply, shaking her off.

"You missed the crazy hobbit lady spying on the meeting," Sefi whispers, her eyes narrowing at me in blame, "She nearly trod on me in her haste to snoop through the window!"

"So judgmental," I say calmly, "Isn't snooping exactly what we've been doing for the past three hours?"

"Yes but our purposes are," she stutters at a loss for words, "honorable."

"Indeed," I drawl, "and that's why Dis refuses to tell her own brother and we are forced to stay hidden like thieves in the night."

"At the very least, our intentions are good," Sefi insists proudly.

"Either way, the hobbit, Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins" I mimic the lady's drawn out way of speaking, "as she is called, is gone now, so we don't have a thing to worry about."

"No," Sefi implores, "You don't understand, she knows everything."

"She can't know everything," I scoff.

"Enough to cause trouble," Sefi warns, "She overheard Thorin's speech about needing burglars, and she knows they want to take Bilbo somewhere, and she said something about finally being able to get her hands on the end of a bag, and I don't know what she was talking about, but I'm pretty sure she means to tell others."

"The end of a bag?"

"I don't know..."

"Does she think they're going after some kind of treasure?"

"I imagine something along those lines. It's only logical, with a need for a burglar."

"Well, what else have they said?" I ask, "Anything about, you know..."

'No but Uncle Thorin only just sat down to dinner..."

I climb on top of Sefi's shoulders and slowly raise my head high enough to see a sliver of the scene in the kitchen. The window softens and blurs the low-pitched dwarven voices, making it difficult to discern words. I poke at the diamond glass panes until I discover a wobbly one.

"What are you doing now?" Sefi groans through clenched teeth. She shifts her sitting position, jostling my shoulder and I almost tumble down.

"Stay still," I hiss back, "And keep quiet, I'm trying to hear."

I continue to poke at the base of the wobbly pane. Eventually the bottom half pops into the room and I deftly catch the glass before it can shatter.

"There's another way in!" I recognize Kili's proud voice. He thinks he's so clever.

I listen carefully. Between the two of us, Sefi and I might have a chance at remembering everything for our report to Dis. I pay extra attention when Bofur speaks of the dragon. I've forced him to recount every story he knows of that day so many times, I believe he is sick of telling them. It's nice to hear the tale told to someone afresh. Although the hobbit doesn't appreciate Bofur's consideration at all. He faints dead away. His body hits the ground with a large thump that startles Sefi, which causes me to lose my balance and tip over sideways. Thankfully no one hears us since the prickles cushion my fall again.

Still, we daren't take another chance and peek through the window again.

I slump against the earthen wall of the hobbit hole and pluck prickles from the front of my tunic one by one. Sefi slides down next to me and leans her head on my shoulder. We sit silently, listening to the soft murmur of conversation drifting out the window. After a few hours the dwarves disband for the evening. Dwalin, Ori, and Oin stay at the table. The rest wander the hobbit's hallways. They all wait for Mr. Baggins' decision.

With no intriguing conversation to distract me, I suddenly become aware of my heavy eyelids. I haven't slept since a full two turns of a sundial. I finish de-needling myself, but keep one. The minute my head starts to droop, I prick myself in the crook of my elbow. A brief pinpoint of pain snaps me alert. Makes me twitch too, but that can't be helped. No one is outside to hear the rustling leaves. However the effect of each poke gradually lessens. If this is how the entire journey goes, sleepless nights and physically taxing days, I might collapse by tomorrow.

I sit, twitching, for a few more hours.

Finally, I give in and rest my eyes for a bit. A strange humming drifts outside through the broken window. I vaguely consider attempting to discover the source, but my body doesn't seem to want to stand up. Thorin's clear, deep singing voice carries well,

"Far over the misty mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away ere break of day

To seek the pale enchanted gold"

I soak in the voices of the dwarves. Home might be far from my current muddy, prickly seat under a window, yet I've never felt closer.

I'm in the presence of the greatest warriors of Erabor. Well, warriors, and toymakers, and two spoiled princelings. I wonder if Kili's fallen asleep yet. Dis always sang the Misty Mountain song before bed when we were children. If I ever had a nightmare, I would run to Sefi's room, who would get scared herself, and drag me to her brother's room, and we'd hide between Kili and Fili, who would loudly proclaim us under their protection and then listen to my nightmare, get scared too, and poor Fili would be sent off to fetch Dis, who would come, and rub our backs, and sing "Misty Mountains" until we slept peacefully.

Of course, I haven't had a nightmare since I was a dwarfling.

But the song still works.

I'm so tired.

* * *

**Auga  
**

**East-West Road**

A gentle, lumbering motion, rocks me from side to side. A metallic 'clickity-clackity-clickity-clackity' rings in my head. When I breathe in, something wispy clings to my nostrils and tickles me. I open my mouth, inhale deeply, and cough on a wad of hair. My eyes squint open, crusted in sleeping dust. I see the familiar reddish glint of Erna's braids seconds before a particularly sudden jolt snaps me into awareness.

I make the grave mistake of trying to sit up and look around. Instead of getting a better view, I end up on my backside, wallowing in dirt and gravel. I manage to stifle my cry of surprise, but Erna, who had been carrying me, groans loudly.

"Kid!" Sefi exclaims, running over and lifting me out of the dirt by my armpits.

"By the ax, Kid!" Erna says, rubbing the muscles I accidentally kicked while falling off her back, "What'd you go and do that for?"

"I assure you, it was not intentional," I say sourly.

She shakes her head at me.

"Is that sunrise or sunset?" I ask, noticing the dim twilight with a heavy heart.

"Sunset," Dis answers, coming from the lead of our little group to check on me.

"I've been carrying you all day," Erna remarks with a grin, "And this, my thanks!"

"Carrying me?" I repeat.

"You slept through everything," Dis explains, handing me a water bottle, "You should have told me you were tired before I sent you out last night."

"I'm sorry," I kick the mud off my boots, "I thought I could handle it."

"Clearly not. Don't let it happen again," Dis warns, "As it is, everything worked out for the best. We're getting ready to camp for the night, and I need a scout again. Since you've had the most sleep out of all of us now, you get the job. We think we've pinpointed the location of Thorin's camp, but I'd like to be certain."

She glances at Erna, who nodes in agreement.

"Understood," I say.

"Good," Dis confirms, "Move on, we still have some part of a mile to go."

I fall into step with Sefi, while the rest walk single file.

"And how do we know where the camp is?" I ask her in a whisper, "Or even when they started the journey since I fell asleep."

"We know when they left because the lazy hobbit slept in, giving us time to catch up to the main group after collecting you," Sefi replies.

I nod, feeling slightly better. Kili claims the hobbit's presence changes the entire probability of the expedition's success. If the dwarves excuse Mr. Baggins for accidentally sleeping, surely no one blames me either.

"Dis calculated their speed based on the slowest pony," Sefi adds, smirking.

"They would need ponies," I say with a grin. I jokingly elbow Sefi in the side. The arm strength of dwarven men is renowned, allowing them to work stone and metal. But forgotten are the dwarf women blessed with the leg strength necessary to walk great distances without tiring, to work the peddles of the sewing contraptions and looms, to bear the children, and to do whatever else needs done. Sefi and I exchange knowing glances, giggling. Male dwarves were not meant for long distance trekking.

"Why was Erna carrying me?" I ask, "Instead of Pru." I survey our line of companions. Dis walks in front, with Amma second, and Alfruna third. The clickity-clackity of Amma's metal knitting needles marches to the beat of the company's footsteps. She never stops knitting. Alfruna gingerly holds up a wool skein, rolling out new yarn whenever Amma runs low. Pru walks behind Sefi and I carrying a green sack of potatoes and leading a donkey.

"What does Pru have?" I whisper to Sefi after hastily turning around and averting my eyes. Pru, ever the strong, silent, warrior dwarf, dislikes people intruding on her privacy.

"Remember when I said Lobelia Sacksville-Baggins trod on me?" Sefi whispers back.

I nod.

"Well, she nearly ran off to inform the entire town about the dwarves' quest to the Lonely Mountain. Wanted to cast Mr. Baggins as unstable and unfit to own his home, I believe," Sefi confides, "She was going to ruin the plans, so we took her along."

"You kidnapped a hobbit?"

"Considering she was doing the snooping in the first place, it hardly counts as kidnapping."

"I don't think she'd see it that way."

"And, you'd be right," Sefi sighs begrudgingly, "She hasn't stopped trying to run away since we first dragged her out of the village. Hence the need for Pru to carry her."

"Won't she be a burden?"

"Dis says we'll let her go once we're far enough out that an army of angry hobbits will no longer be a threat."

"Is an army of angry hobbits ever an actual threat?"

"Unnecessary annoyance, then," Sefi shrugs.

"I see," I say, unconvinced.

"In the meantime," Dis interrupts our conversation, looking back at us in amusement, "we'll assign an extra watch each night," Dis eyes me, her expression suggesting it'll be me doing the extra watching.

"I'm going to spend every daylight hour of this journey being carried asleep on Erna's back, aren't I?" I grumble to Sefi.

Sefi snorts and drags me in front of her. She pokes me as we walk, keeping my body in the line of sight between her and Dis. I sneak a glance behind me and see Sefi furiously scribbling in her notebook. She looks up and prods my shoulder forward with her pen. I resign myself to my fate of being her cover. Amma indulges in her knitting habit while walking, Sefi should be allowed to do the same. I amuse myself by recalling Kili's face at the hobbit's door and giggling over 'Mr. Boggins'. It works for five minutes. And then nothing. Nothing but walking.

This is going to be a longer journey than anticipated.

By nightfall we reach a clearing tucked in the edge of a forest. Dis signals the company to stop. We gather round her in a malformed circle, heaving our supply bags to the ground. I roll my shoulder, trying to regain feeling in my upper arm. During the last quarter mile the pinching gradually numbed my arm. I'll have to adjust the straps to properly distribute the weight. Stupid of me to neglect doing it before we left.

Pru dumps Lobelia on the hard ground next to Dis's bag. The hobbit rolls into a sitting position and screeches muffled insults underneath the gag around her mouth. Pru yanks a blanket off the donkey and throws it over the hobbit's head, exactly as Pru does for her pet canary back home when it's bedtime. Lobelia kicks at the cloth until she tires, gives up, curls into a ball, and falls asleep. Exactly like the canary. Though I strongly suspect bringing the canary along would have been of more use to our company.

"How long are we going to keep her?" I ask.

"As long as necessary," Dis snaps, "Erna, firewood."

Erna warily eyes Dis and the bundle of flannel that covers the hobbit, and walks off.

I help Sefi lay out sleeping pads for Amma and Alfruna, the two in the group who require special treatment. Amma perches on a wooden log, Alfruna sitting at her feet, the familiar clack-click-clack breaking the quiet of the woods. I rearrange Amma's pack so she can easily access new yarn from the top, and discover an extra sleeping pad.

"There's another pad," I announce, holding it up and waving it for all to see.

Dis starts to walk over and claim it, but Pru reaches me first. She snatches it out of my hands, deftly flicks the string untied, and rolls it out next to the hobbit. I hastily turn to Dis, preparing for trouble, but Dis merely raises her eyebrows and shrugs. Normally, our leader would not permit any slight breach in her command. But, similar to Amma, Pru tends to get away with things. And none of us know quite what to do with the hobbit, having never seen one before.

The warrior dwarf carefully lifts the blanket off Lobelia. Snoring fills the clearing, drowning out even Amma's knitting.

"Durin's beard, that's as bad as Gloin and Gimli combined!" Erna complains, stepping into the clearing, her arms heavily laden with wood.

We all stare as Pru gently rolls Lobelia onto the pad. Pru takes her spiked knife and cuts through the bonds on the hobbit's wrists and mouth. A slight hiccup among the snores is the only sign of awareness Lobelia makes.

I watch Lobelia curiously. I've never seen a hobbit up close before. Her hair is curly, springy. I imagine if I pulled a lock it would stretch out and bounce back. She's delicate too. Hands tiny as an elf child and fine boned wrists and ankles. I rub my own wrist, easily twice the size.

Erna builds the fire while Dis draws a map in the dirt. The dwarf princess's hand expertly etches lines to represent woods, rivers, mountains and towns. She knows every inch of the land, but only in two-dimensional form. I've seen her sit for hours in the great hall of scrolls under the Blue Mountains, memorizing, tracing, examining the maps. I asked her why once. She glared at me, told me 'just in case', and went on ignoring me. But she let me watch her work. Which is something, I guess.

"Rivendell is the one place Thorin will never set foot in," Dis explains, marking a scull and crossbones in the dirt, "And judging from our current landmarks, we're here." She places a rock at the base of a small foothill drawn into the dirt. A dark line going between the two foothills represents a small valley, or maybe a canyon.

"We think Thorin's party should be around here," she places another rock on the other side of the canyon, "But where they decided to stop for the night, I don't know," she looks up at me, "That's your job."

I nod, and glance beyond Dis's shoulder to Sefi. Sefi hunches her shoulders and scribbles in her notebook, flicking her eyes back and forth between the dirt map and her page. Sefi must work quickly. If Dis discovers the drawing, she will take it as an insult to her talent for memory.

"What did you learn at the Hobbit's window?" Dis asks me.

"They aim to retake Erabor," I say bluntly.

Dis grimaces, "Curse Thorin Oakenshield for dragging my sons into a conflict that is not their own," she sighs, "Who else journeys with him?"

I name all twelve of the dwarves.

"Well, that list doesn't surprise me," Erna comments, laughing.

"At least we know who we're dealing with now," Dis concedes. She waves her hand in the direction of the forest, "Go. Find their camp. Report back in the morning. Try not to fall asleep this time."

I nod eagerly, trying to contain my excitement. Dis does not approve of overly expressing oneself. Probably explains why her youngest son acts like a concussed duck half the time.

Amma begins to hum in my general direction and I turn to her. She pantomimes knitting, sticks a bowl on her head, and runs her hands up and down her forearms.

"Don't worry Amma," I sigh with eternal patience, "Ori has not yet worn a hole through his wool gloves."

She motions to her eyes.

"Yes, I will keep a special eye on him while scouting," I promise.

Happily content, she returns to her knitting.

Before setting off, I pull my dark grey hood over my head, tucking my beard down the front of my shirt. My infernally yellow hair glows neon in the night. Blending into the shadows, I swiftly hop through the line of trees separating our camp from the edge of the cliff.

Discovering Thorin's camp takes no time at all. The fools built a glowing fire without even a scattering of trees to hide the telltale flames. Clearly not anticipating unwelcome company or spies. Typical dwarves, oblivious to anything except themselves. I slide down next to a pine tree, nestle myself between the trunk and a large root, and watch.

At first nothing seems to happen. Fili and Kili stand out brightly behind the fire, sharing a pipe between them. I grin, imagining the surprise on Kili's face if he knew where I was.

Without warning, the seemingly asleep Thorin stands and walks towards the edge of the cliff, resting his foot on a rock and peering across the ravine. At first, I worry he noticed me. I duck behind the root of the tree, my heart quickening. After a long minute, though, when there is no shout, I peek back over the knotted bark.

They're all standing now, as if in deference to the King. I burn with jealousy. I may be here, spying, which is exciting, and secret, and definitely adventure tale worthy. But Kili is there, among the good company of heroes and dwarves of legend, with the chance of earning valor and glory.

I would ride a smelly, pooping pony to have that chance.

Thorin says something to Kili and the young prince's regal bearing deflates a little. Looking like a puppy denied a treat, Kili moves to sit on the rock where Thorin stood. The rest settle on the ground and fall back asleep. Kili must have landed first watch as punishment for whatever he did to disturb his uncle. He pulls out a pack and starts crafting arrows while keeping one eye on his surroundings. I watch him intently.

This time, I promise myself, I won't sleep.

Ten minutes go by, and a faint rustling of leaves signals movement behind me. Instinctually, I roll over the root, crouching low on the other side to remain hidden. Although my back now faces the camp, I trust my cloak to conceal my position. I barely trust myself to breathe.

Two orcs plod through the clearing, riding wargs. My heartbeat picks up pace again. I can hear them muttering in their own language. They seem suspiciously interested in the dwarf camp. Logically, if I fail to neutralize them, the orcs will take news of the entire company's journey back to whatever hole they crawled out of. I know my duty.

I quietly unsheathe my twin blades. The swords are no bigger than knives, but this requires close work. Taking deep, calming breaths, I wait. No chance for rash decisions here.

One of the wargs turns slightly away from me. I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Any closer and I'd be breathing down the warg's butt. Ignoring the stench, I launch myself out of my hiding place and drop into a roll. My fists dig into the dirt, my legs flip over my body tightly. The stones grind against my back. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I throw my weight forward, slicing the back of the warg's bow-legged knees open. The warg screams in pain and starts to collapse.

I roll again, slicing the warg's front two legs. I catch myself before I go further, turning my head to see the warg and it's rider crash to the ground. Energized by my success, I dash behind the nearest tree. I catch my breath and spare a quick glance towards the camp. Kili remains on the rock. He can't hear a thing.

The orcs argue, twisting in all directions, trying to find the source of the disturbance. The orc rider I unseated ends the injured creature's misery with a final blow to the head. Both riders remain alert. I no longer have surprise on my side.

Unless I'm clever.

I wait until the lone rider searches closer to my bush. They know I disappeared somewhere in this direction. However, they're unaware of my skill at moving unheard and unseen. I slip through the foliage, around to the opposite end of the clearing. Neither are paying attention to their backs.

Idiots.

I run at the lone orc, aiming two slices to his legs. He goes down. The orc riding the remaining warg turns in his seat. He swings his leg and dismounts. I back away.

The one who had fallen staggers to his feet. I'm trapped.

I pick the weakest and swing at him wildly. He deflects my attack easily and thrusts his spear at my head. I duck. He swings. I catch his blade with my own. His spear slides down, nearly to my arm. I try to stab him using my free knife, but fail. With brute strength he shoves me backward, sending my sword flying. I shove myself off the ground and hop forward again. I run underneath his legs, putting the tree at my back instead of the second orc. I swivel and hold my remaining sword in front of me, hands shaking. I stare at the orc laughing in front of me.

Twice as tall, twice as strong.

I hadn't accounted for his extra strength.

I lunge. He overpowers me easily. The second rider watches, cackling, as the first blocks my strike, nearly snapping my arm, and grabs my throat. He lifts me with a single hand until my face is at his height. My cloak snags against the tree bark, revealing my hair and beard. He snarls words in a language I can't understand. I curse myself for never paying attention to lessons. If Sefi were here...

"Where are you dwarves headed?" the orc repeats in my own language.

"I..." I stammer broken sounds and shake my head.

"Tell me, or I will cut off your head," the orc adds, grinning.

My heart pounds and my eyes start to water. I can't breathe. I'm going to die, in shame, while Kili sits a hundred feet away, clueless.

"Rivendell," I blurt the first name that comes to mind. The one place Thorin would never set foot.

"Dwarves don't visit elves," the orc scoffs.

"Precisely," I cough, "No one would suspect..."

Suddenly an arrow sprouts in the side of the orc's neck. He drops me and falls dead at my feet. I collapse to the ground, my chest heaving in shock. I look across the ravine. Kili stands tall. His feet firmly perch on the rock, oddly graceful for a dwarf. He strings a second arrow on his bow.

Perhaps not so clueless after all.

I drop behind the tree to give Kili a clear sight on the second orc. Two more arrows soar past, one sinking into the warg's thick hide, and the other embedding itself into a tree. The orc escapes. I jump into the clearing, still breathing heavily. Kili and I stare at each other for a minute, neither certain what to do.

Curiously, he hasn't woken up any of the other dwarves yet. He turns away and walks toward a sleeping lump covered in a knitted afghan. I recognize Amma's handiwork, a travel blanket made for Ori. I prepare myself for the inevitability of being discovered.

However, instead of sounding the alarm, Kili digs through a supply pack and retrieves a pencil and a sheet of paper. It takes him longer than it probably should to scribble a few sentences. I can see him chewing on the end of the pencil in thought. He fixes the note to the end of a rope, ties the rope to an arrow, and shoots.

The arrow hits the tree right above my head. I glare at him; what if he had missed by an inch? And yank the arrow out of the bark, perhaps using more force than necessary.

'What are you doing here, you addlepated goat?' the note reads. His handwriting is clumsy, nearly as bad as mine. And the word addlepated appears to have been smudged several times as if the writer was uncertain of the spelling.

I search the ground for a piece of loose rock covered in dirt. The writing utensil is crude but I manage to scrawl a response:

"7 dwarves, orcs track u, no tell thorin or will tell Dis truth"

That should satisfy him. I drop the arrow off the ledge. Kili drags the rope back across the ravine, carrying the note with it. He reads, looks up at me, rips the paper to shreds, and tosses the scraps over the cliff. I take a step back, unable to read his expression. He holds eye contact for another minute before returning to his seat on the rock, his back facing me.

I heave a sigh of relief, pulling my hood back over my head. I fade into the woods. Finding my original hiding spot behind a root, I wait patiently for daylight. The dying orc and warg lying near me give off a tremendous stench, but I pay no attention.

The next morning I watch Thorin's company pack their bags and move on. Kili lingers, bringing up the rear. Before he disappears around a rock he pokes his head out from behind it and gives me a cheery wave. At this distance I can barely discern his expression. But I can imagine it. That stupid, self-satisfied smile that lights up his entire face. I've seen it often enough. I grin despite myself. It's nice to have a co-conspirator again.

When I return to our camp, Dis smiles approvingly at me, "Didn't fall asleep this time, I see."

"No," I reply, "They're on the move."

She assesses me, judges the slight change in my demeanor, and accepts it. "Then we should be too," she announces and moves from sleeping bundle to sleeping bundle nudging them with her foot, "everybody up!"

As everyone packs to leave, Dis turns to me again.

"Did anything else happen last night, Auga?" she asks, using my real name. She hasn't called me Auga since the time Kili and I dipped her black hair in wood ash mixed with vinegar while she was sleeping. Her bleached hair made her so angry she nearly skinned us alive, screaming our full names in anger.

"No," I say, looking her straight in the eye calmly, "Nothing."


End file.
